Do Svidaniya
by ArkadyLady
Summary: Requested fic that takes place post "No More Secrets" that covers G Callen's dealing with the death of his father.


"_Do svidaniya__…Grisha_."

G Callen remembered that moment so vividly. He had played it over in his head thousands of time. It came up once in a psych eval, and he was asked to describe how it made him feel. He never could. The psychiatrist just assumed he was being his normal, closed-off self. But he wasn't.

Excitement. Relief. Anger. Disappointment. Pain. Grief. Peace. The feelings didn't even follow in a sequence but instead occurred simultaneously. There wasn't a word for what he felt, and no master of the English language could ever create one.

It never left. It was always there, lurking like so many past memories and experiences. He had learned to layer things. He used this term with Nate who would react very strongly whenever G talked about compartmentalizing things. G had Nate's reply memorized: "1. Compartmentalizing is not healthy for extended periods of time. 2. You have to process things, or it's just denial."

G would then explain to Nate that he was layering, not compartmentalizing. Nate would say that was just as bad, but G would argue that layers create a strong foundation. Nate would sigh and tell G to promise him he would at least try something new for de-stressing, like yoga, so they could end the session.

His whole adult life, he had heard adages about not burying things. Not holding things in. Let them out. Share. Talk. Hug. Cry. He'd usually come back with a snarky reply, adaptable enough to tie into whatever the context was. (No one quite appreciated this enough.) Sometimes, when he would get tired of hearing it, he'd pull out The Conversation Death Blow, guaranteed to end any discussion about his past: "Childhood trauma is kind of a buzzkill." And he was right.

The only person that ever gave him an actual response was Sam Hanna. Sam was trying desperately to bond when, on their third case, they both realized this partnership thing was official. When G delivered The Conversation Death Blow, Sam simply replied, "A bigger 'buzzkill' is losing a decent person because they've let themselves spiral down." That was the death blow to The Death Blow. He never used it, again. He had to give Sam credit for that. Stubbornness prevailed as always, though, and G would end conversations by just staying quiet for a moment before walking away.

Walking away was a handy power move in conversations. After all, the other team can't get control of the ball if you take the ball off the field entirely. The strategic move of walking away served multiple purposes. Movement gets oxygen flowing to your brain, and it can work a little better. This was important for G because he needed all possible mental strength to re-bury things. Childhood memories of bad experiences and constant feelings of abandonment could claw their ways up to the top layer so quickly, and they were always closer to the surface than perhaps anyone realized — even G himself at times.

Walking away was good. Walking away helped. It was time to walk away, again.

_You love to walk away_, G thought to himself. _It's easy. You're good at it — much better than you are at running. It's time to go._

But it was hard. It shouldn't have been this hard. He didn't think it would be this hard.

"It's time to go."

This startled G, and that was not an easy feat. He was momentarily worried he was starting to talk to himself. He looked up from the gravestone to see the groundskeeper standing over him. It would be dark soon, and it was time to lock the gates.

"I'll be done in a minute, I promise." G looked up at the groundskeeper, hoping he would grant his request. The groundskeeper nodded, solemnly, and walked away to give him some time alone.

Everyone had been there earlier at the close of the service. Alex and Jake went home. G was grateful to get a hug from the latter. He had thanked Hetty for somehow working her magic and securing a completed gravestone in record time. Hetty gave a silent nod back to him. They looked at each other for a moment, knowing that, once again, they had more complicated conversations to have about secrets. Conversations they always somehow managed to avoid. Hetty was a master of layering, and G was a master of walking away.

He had gone with the rest of the team to the bar after the service. All drinks, no conversation. Just what G needed in that moment. He had stayed for two hours before heading out, telling Sam he needed to go "Run some errands and finalize things." Sam nodded. He understood. The others had various things to take care of, anyway.

That's when G went back to the cemetery. And stared at the gravestone of Nikita. Garrison. Konstantine. The man with the coin. The man Michael Reinhardt owed his life to. The man who raised Darius. Clara's husband. Jake's grandfather. Father to Amy, Alex, and him.

"_Do svidaniya__…Grisha_."

G went back to that moment, when he didn't know if he'd ever see the man again. He had imagined this moment so many times for decades. It had finally happened. He'd never forget it, but it had to end. He had to walk away. Moments would mean nothing if they lasted forever. He tried not to read into _Do svidaniya__. _G knew that it literally translated to "until the next meeting." He didn't take it as a promise, though. He also knew it was a formal goodbye and not something you'd expect from your father. It made sense for them, though. Their relationship was one of literal and figurative distance. Walls and secrets abounded. Knocking down one wall only led to another. Answers led to more questions.

But they did meet again. And then said goodbye, again. And then met once more.

And said goodbye for the last time.

G remembered those final moments. Nikita was very weak. He had used all of his energy to visit Amy one last time. G was sitting next to the bed, staring at the glass of water he kept offering to his father. Nikita declined every time and drinking would have been too hard anyway. At one point, Nikita appeared to be in distress. G went to call a nurse before realizing Nikita was struggling to lift his arm up, reaching out to his son.

G knelt down by the bed to see what his father needed. Nikita lifted his hand up and touched G's cheek, trying to gently rub it as he had done in Cuba. G noticed that his hands were already starting to get cold, and instinct told him to hold them with his own to warm them up. He knew it wouldn't do anything, though.

Nikita took a labored breath and finally said, "_Poka_, Grisha." His eyes closed for the last time.

G whispered, "_Poka_."

It was the informal version of goodbye, used only for those one is close with. G wasn't sure when they crossed from distant to close, or even if they really had. He only knew this was their final goodbye.

G forced himself to snap back to the present, once more. The groundskeeper would probably not be so forgiving the second time. It was time to walk away.

He went to the beach and watched the sun finish setting. He wasn't ready to go back home. There were so many things from Cuba he'd have to start processing when he returned to reality. He didn't want that noise in his head yet, and knew he'd probably eventually search for a distraction anyway to help with the layering.

He looked down at the sand. He knew what he wanted to do was cliche, and he even rolled his eyes at himself. _This is an extremely lame thing to do, _he thought. But he did it anyway. There was no one he was more stubborn with than himself.

He wrote _пока́_ in the sand — _poka _with Cyrllic letters. Because he was a showoff. He turned around and smiled. And then he walked away.


End file.
